Mask of the Demon
by Scribe Shiloh
Summary: (one-shot) A short incident that brings out the lost child within the demon that is Dilandau. Dilandau encounters a Tenshi-figure during a raid on Palas...


AN: Okay, before you yell at me wondering why I haven't updated TO Mend the Rose, and instead wrote this...it's because this is actually my descriptive essay for English 112. ^_^ YES! I actually encorporated Escaflowne into a college assignment! Wo! Go me! ^_^ So...it's short: it had to be short. Enjoy it! I will be writing more of TmtR when I have time to reread it and get the state of mind back.  
  
MASK OF THE DEMON by Feye Morgan  
  
A red eyed demon walks the streets of a cinder-strewn capital. Heat blankets the air, and crimson shadows dance like the possessed devils of the underworld on the broken sides of buildings. The city is on fire, and the demon is filled with it.  
  
His name is Dilandau Albatou, captain of an elite squad of soldiers, and he is ruthless. His eyes burn blood red with a depth and fury alien to mortal man. His skin is pale and flawless, a fallen angel to behold. Silvery hair catches the tainted light from the ruin around him...a ruin he has caused.  
  
He laughs. The sound echoes eerily through the burning city. Any soldiers left standing nearby pale and tremble violently at the demon's insane cackling. The peals are rich with the lust of battle, merciless to the core. Dilandau breaths war, dreams of battle, and drinks in the lifeblood of his fallen enemies.  
  
He turns. Silver-white hair tosses about his head, falling around his glinting eyes. Amidst the agonized cries of battle, and the greedy licking of flames, he hears the footsteps of the enemy. Dilandau draws his katana in one fluid movement. Stark steel reflects the red light of destruction, creating the illusion of blood trickling down its sharpened edge; an illusion soon to be replaced with reality.  
  
Sweat from the heat trickles down his forehead in small beads. Dilandau delicately passes the tip of his tongue over his lips, smiling as he tastes the sharp sting of salt. He breathes in deep, filling his lungs with moist air, relishing the distinct odor of ash and crisped flesh.  
  
But now his opponent steps into view from behind the ruins of a home. Dilandau looks down in consternation at a small girl, no older than six. Her wide blue eyes are filled with tears and her chin trembles as she looks up at the crimson-clad soldier before her.  
  
"Mother! Where is mother?" she cries helplessly, backing up a step before sinking to the ground, her tiny frame shaking with sobs.  
  
The silver-haired captain's cold expression softens. If the girl had looked up, she might have seen a glimmer of blue shine beneath crimson eyes. I was a child like this once, he remembers. Long ago. A piece of his heart reaches for the girl crumpled on the ground.  
  
For Dilandau is a child himself. War has created the image of a hardened soldier of only fifteen years on his brutal surface; but inside, he hurts. His leather gloves crackle as he balls his hands into fists, trying to hold his boiling emotions inside.  
  
This red-eyed child has seen his only friends mercilessly speared on the ends of swords; cut down by unfeeling assailants, their small cries for help gone unanswered. He has felt his superiors abuse him, treat him as if he was no more than another disposable weapon. And Dilandau knows that, eventually, the last thing he will ever feel is the silky, hot gush of his own lifeblood pouring out of his veins onto the dry, cracked battlefield. His fate is inevitable.  
  
So he laughs. He burns. He smiles. He looses himself in the fury of war, his senses heightened into oblivion by the chaos of fire and death swirling around him. But the sad flicker of blue beneath the burning crimson reveals that the demon is a mask to shadow the hurt and pain beneath. In the adreneline rush, he becomes immortal; a god of the sword. His mind is blinded from the truth of his tortured existance. For a short while, his imprisoned mind believes that it is free.  
  
Dilandau Albatou gazes down at the weeping child. Around him, the wildfire still consumes the wreckage of the city. Screams of pain and victory assail his ears. Hot blood bubbles upon the ground. The stench of fear and sweat permeates the air. And at the center, a child strains to be free of it all.  
  
Dilandau Albatou sheathes his sword. The sharp sound scrapes the air, causing the child before him to flinch. He steps forward, and bends down to take the girl in his arms. Oblivious to everything save her own pain and the comforting arms around her, she clasps her hands around his neck and buries her face in his shoulder. Tears moisten the hard leather of his uniform, washing away the gritty ash.  
  
A silver-haired child with the face of an angel walks the streets of a cinder-strewn capital. His eyes shine the clear, cool ruby of polished gems. All madness has fled them now. Carefully and protectively he holds the small girl in his arms. Pieces of rubble and blackened wood crunch beneath his thick leather boots.  
  
"You'll be all right now," he whispers consolingly to the child. The lilt in his voice is a stark contrast to the inhuman war cry that chills the blood of hardened generals. "I'll protect you." The boy deserts the death-sodden air of the battleground, and walks towards freedom. 


End file.
